


Between Two Places

by MdeCarabas



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon Typical Emotional Trauma, Canon Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, M/M, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MdeCarabas/pseuds/MdeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Officially, Agent Washington meets Private Lavernius Tucker on a snowy field shortly before fighting the Meta. Unofficially, Davey decided they were going to be best friends when he was only five years old, interplanetary teleportation be damned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Time is the longest distance between two places.”

-Tennessee Williams

**Age 5**

“Mom!”

“Hey, honey,” his mom says with a smile. She leans down to hug him and lifts him up off his feet, twirling him around until he laughs. “How was your day?”

“Ms. Patel read my story to everyone and she said it was really good,” he babbles excitedly, “And I got all the questions on my math test right ‘cept the hard one she said was for extra points. But no one but Anna got it right, and she’s the smartest girl in class.”

He wiggles until she lets him down, backpack sliding off his shoulders.

“That’s great,” she says with a laugh. She holds her hand up so that he can give her a high five, and then twists her fingers so they can do their secret handshake not even dad knows about. He dances around her and she wiggles her hips and then they make their hands explode like bombs.

All the other grownups stare at them, but his mom doesn’t care.

He turns back to the school to wave at Ms. Patel, and then they begin to walk down the street toward his home. The bus stop’s only a couple blocks away from the school, but mom says he’s too small to take it home by himself, even if the big kids are allowed.

He wonders if she’ll let him go home alone if he gets a skateboard. That’s how he dad used to get around town when _he_ was a kid. That’s what grandma used to say.

“Oh!!” he says, suddenly remembering the _best_ news of all, “Ohh, mom—and guess what!”

“What?”

He wants to wait as long as they do in the movies, but he’s so excited that he blurts out the news as fast as he can, almost tripping over the sidewalk as he darts in front of her. “I made a friend,” Davey says proudly.

Her eyebrows get really, _really_ high, like she thinks it’s super amazing. He grins back at her, because it kinda is. “That sounds really exciting,” she says, grinning back, “Your first one since we got here. What’s their name? Are they in your class?”

“His name is La-ver-nee-us,” he pronounces carefully. He spent all recess trying to get it right, even though Vern said no one calls him that except when he’s in trouble. “He’s my best friend. Can he come over to play tomorrow?”

They get to the street corner and she holds out a hand for him to take as they cross. “He can if his parents say it’s alright,” she says with a nod, “But they’ll probably want to meet me a few times, so don’t be too disappointed if they don’t let him come over right away, okay?”

“Okay,” he echoes automatically. But then he thinks about it a little more and starts to pout. His mom squeezes his hand, sensing his disappointment.

“What’s wrong?” she asks carefully.

Davey shrugs his shoulders and toes at the ground, kicking a pebble in front of them as they walk along the path. “They probably won’t let him come over to play with me,” he says glumly, “’Cause he lives too far away.”

“He can’t live _that_ far away,” she points out, “Or he wouldn’t be able to go to the school.” She shakes her head, laughing a little, and he feels better even though she’s wrong. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we can figure out some way for him to come over. I’ll borrow mean ol’ Mr. Richard’s car if I have to.”

He giggles at the idea, because his mom’s being silly again. “You can’t _drive_ to his house,” he says with a smile, “You have to take a ship!”

“You don’t take ships to go across town, Davey.”

She doesn’t have to say it like he’s a little kid. “I know!” he says impatiently, “That’s what I _mean_.” He tugs on her shirt until she stops and listens to him for real. “You hafta take a ship ‘cause Vern lives on Earth!”

She doesn’t look like she knows what to say. Her mouth opens and closes a bunch of times, but she doesn’t say _anything_ , and then she starts to look kinda sad. “Don’t worry, Davey,” she says eventually, “I’m sure you’ll make friends soon enough.”

“I don’t _want_ any other friends,” he mutters, “I wanna hang out with _Vern_.”

 

**Age 9**

“Hey mom? Can I have another sandwich?”

“You’re hungry _again_?” she asks in disbelief, “Every other day I have to watch you pick at your food, and suddenly you’re asking for after school snacks?” She looks at him suspiciously and places her hands on her hips. “Davey, did you sneak in another cat?”

“No!” he says indignantly.

Well, _yeah_ , but that’s not why he wants the sandwich. Besides, the last time he fed one of his cats a sandwich, they pooped all over the carpet in the den. He’s not gonna get in trouble like that again. He knows better now. That’s why he traded his snack for a week to Alice Dekker in exchange for bringing some cat food from home.

She doesn’t look like she believes him. “Well in either case the answer is no,” she says firmly, “If you’re all that hungry, you only have forty-five minutes until dinner’s done. I’m sure you can wait until then.”

Davey fidgets at the door, trying to figure out what to do. He _can’t_ go back to his room empty-handed. Maybe he can get something else instead. “Um…then can I have some grapes?” he asks hopefully, “Or a banana?”

She pauses and thinks about it as she stirs the pot of spaghetti on the stove. “Yeah, sure,” she says with a shrug. She grabs a bowl from the high-up cabinet and places it on the counter. “Just don’t forget to wash it this time.”

Davey beams and bounces over to the fridge. “I won’t, I promise!” he says as he bounds over to the fridge. He grabs the whole bunch and then slams the door shut, barely noticing his mom glare at him for it. He has to stand on his tiptoes to turn the faucets on, but that’s okay because Dad was small when he was a kid too.

“Okay thank you bye!” Davey blurts out as he runs from the room. A couple of grapes fall out the bowl when he stumbles going up the stairs, but he throws them back in as if nothing has happened. (It’s okay, though, because germs don’t get on food unless they’ve been on the floor for at least five seconds.)

He slams his way into his room and as soon as he’s there, he grabs the old baby toy chest his mom made him keep and shoves it in front of the door so no one can come in.

Vern looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor.

“Mom wouldn’t let me have another sandwich, so I got you grapes instead,” Davey explains as he sits down in front of him, “They’re good, though. We have the green ones, not the weird blue ones that taste kinda funny.”

Vern scrunches up his nose, but he reaches over anyway to pop a grape in his mouth. “Whatever,” he says with a shrug, “Hey, you wanna be a Spartan?”

Davey brightens immediately. “Yeah!” he says happy grin, “I hate always playing the Covenant.” No one ever lets him play the good guys. He’s always stuck being an Elite or a Grunt. He _knew_ today was gonna be great ever since Vern showed up in his closet.

“The Covenant are kinda cool, though,” Tucker says eagerly, “’Cause they’re like ten feet tall and they have claws and sometimes they eat people! Like, _whole._ They just snatch the heads off like it’s nothing!”

“They don’t eat people,” Davey says. If he knew the word, he’d say he felt scandalized, but as it is he just stares at Vern in disbelief. “They just fight and shoot them. And sometimes they stab them too, ‘cause they have swords.”

“They do too!” Vern protests, “I heard it on the news!”

“No you didn’t!”

Vern scowls at him for a second, then reluctantly admits that he didn’t. “Okay, but I heard it from Alec Shafer,” he says defensively, “And _his_ mom is fighting against them in the war!”

“So’s my _dad!_ ” Davey says in exasperation.

Vern lights up. “Really? Cool!”

And just like that, the fight is forgotten.

They play soldiers for awhile until they grow bored with that game. Vern suggests grabbing some brooms and practicing sword fighting, but there’s no way he could sneak those past her, so they can’t do that either. They could always play video games if they can get into the den…but they have to pass by the kitchen to get there.

“This blows,” Vern says glumly.

It totally does. It’d be so much better if they didn’t always have stay in his room. If only they could think up a way for them to hang out without having to be quiet all the time. Maybe if they told his mom?

“Hey, Vern,” Davey says thoughtfully, “Does your mom and dad know you can teleport?” If they do, maybe they can talk to Davey’s mom about it, so they won’t always have to hide it when Vern comes over to play.

Vern scratches his head, thinking about it for awhile. “I told my mom about it when I came over last summer,” he says, “But she said she was watching and I never left the couch. And then I told my dad and _he_ said I was making things up.”

Davey makes a face.

“Grown-ups always think you’re lying about _everything_ ,” Vern says scornfully, “They don’t believe anything you say if you’re a kid. It’s so dumb."

“I know,” Davey agrees, “My mom wouldn’t believe me when I said I was hungry. She thought I was trying to feet all my cats again. That’s why she wouldn’t make me a sandwich.”

Vern snorts. “ _Parents_.”

He nods, because yeah. Still, there’s gotta be some way to fix things for before both of them totally _die_ of boredom. “Maybe my mom will believe us if we make her wait ‘til you disappear,” Davey says hopefully, “And then we can do whatever we want when you come over.”

“Or she’ll call me a freak,” Vern points out, “And then we have to hide even more.”

True. It doesn’t really _sound_ like his mom, but he’s read enough comic books to know that sometimes people get weird when it comes to really awesome super powers. She might hate mutants or something and then tell everyone.

Vern might have to run away from home and hide out from the government.

_Cool_.

But that’s not gonna solve their problem, even if it might be fun to see him on the news. “Weeell, maybe we can tell her you’re in my class,” Davey suggests, “And we can just say I asked if you wanted to come over. “

That might work. He’s getting pretty good at it lately, so she’ll probably believe it if he says he did. “I could ask her if you can come over,” he continues eagerly, “And then we can pretend I let you in when she wasn’t looking.”

Vern looks at him skeptically. “Isn’t she gonna be mad that you opened the door?”

Davey shrugs.

“And isn’t she gonna ask to see my mom?”

Davey shrugs again.

Vern’s nose scrunches up again, considering it for a long moment. Then he shrugs, already bored with the conversation, and slowly gives him a nod. “Yeah, okay,” he says carelessly, “Let’s do it.”

Davey beams at him. This is gonna be the best plan ever of all time. There’s no way anything could possibly go wrong.

 

**Age 13**

They’re hanging out in the den after school when Vern reminds him about the thing he’s been working on. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, of course—he’s just commenting on how long ago one of these games came out—but it strikes a chord in David that makes his brain light up.

_Oh!_

“Wait a second,” David blurts out. He runs over to his book bag and pulls his notepad out of a pocket, tapping at the screen to unlock it. He pulls up the file he’s been working on for the last four months—ever since he put two and two together and realized what they’ve been missing all along.

Vern leans over his shoulder to get a look, crowding up against him in a way that makes David pause. “Um,” he says nervously, then tries again, “Um. So I’ve been working on figuring out what makes you come and go. Trying to see patterns.”

“Oh,” Vern says, “I thought it was gonna be something cool.” He pulls away, clearly disappointed, then wanders over to the flop down on the couch, sprawling there with his feet dangling over the side. He sighs for the third time since he got there. David’s beginning to hate that sound.

“It _is_ cool,” David protests, “I’ve been making a list—”

Vern leans over the side of the couch and waves him over. “ _Whatever,”_ he says dismissively, “Nerd stuff, I get it. Hey, did I tell you my mom’s letting me take guitar lessons? It’s so freaking awesome. I think I’m gonna start a band.”

“It’s not _nerd stuff_ ,” David says, feeling vaguely affronted by the suggestion. He walks over to Vern with a scowl on his face and shoves his feet to side so he can sit down, then rolls his eyes when they promptly wind up in his lap. “At least take your sneakers off.”

“Nah, what if I leave?” Vern points out, “I don’t wanna tell my mom she’s gonna have to buy me a new pair of sneakers. She’ll make me buy something really ugly and cheap.” He makes a face. “I don’t wanna have to walk around in something _you_ would wear.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Vern pokes him with the bottom of his dirty sneakers. “They’re _old_ ,” he says, making a face at David, “Just like everything you wear. No one even wears that style anymore. You’re never gonna get a chick to make out with you dressed like that.”

David sits up straight in his chair.

“See, that’s what I mean,” he says excitedly, “You’re always talking about how all my stuff is old, right? But some of those games just came out! And then I remember you saying that no one ever notices you missing. So I started thinking that maybe you weren’t just teleporting—”

“Ugh, get to the point already.”

“—And that maybe you were _time traveling_ instead,” he finishes triumphantly.

Vern stares at him with a blank look on his face. He feels his own expression falter the longer the room stays quiet. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” David says, fidgeting with a stray shoelace. It’s not like he expected Vern to start calling him a genius, but he still expected a little more than _this_.

Soon the silence begins to wear on his nerves.

He hesitates a second before speaking. “Um, Vern—?”

Vern interrupts him all of a sudden, saying the last thing David would have ever expected to hear from him. “So I think I’m gonna change my name to Tucker,” he says out of nowhere, “’Cause you can’t be a rockstar with a name like _Vern_. That’s like, I dunno, that’s what you call someone’s dad. Tucker is a way cooler name.”

David blinks rapidly, throw off track. “I…what?”

He’s trying to talk about people breaking the _space-time_ continuum and all Vern can do is talk about changing his name. That’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. Like, _ever_. Of all time.

Clearly, his expression must be giving something away, because Vern—or whatever he wants to be called now—kind of sighs and looks exasperated. “Ugh, whatever,” he says irritably, “Why’s it even _matter?_ So I’m time traveling instead of teleporting. Oh yeah, that totally changes everything.”

“It does change everything!” David says. He can’t exactly think about _how_ , exactly, but…science, maybe? Or just—it’s _cool_ , okay? His best friend can _travel in time_. He doesn’t understand how anyone could be nonchalant about that. “Look, Vern—”

I told you, call me _Tucker_ ,” Vern snaps at him,“That’s my name now.” He scowls at David and crosses his arms angrily, “You never listen to me when I talk. You always just wanna talk about what you wanna talk about it.”

David says hotly, “That’s not true!”

“Yeah? Then how come you didn’t say anything when I told you I was gonna be a rockstar?” Vern sneers, “You didn’t even care! You just wanted to talk about your stupid time travel thing.”

He didn’t talk about it because it was _stupid_. Barely anyone gets to become a rockstar, especially people who only just started learning how to play the guitar. Besides, it’s not nearly as important as figuring out why Vern keeps time traveling to _him_.

“Okay, fine then, _Tucker_ ,” David says sarcastically, “Tell me all about your guitar lessons.”

Vern brightens immediately, eyes lighting up in total excitement. “Okay, so I know this guy who plays the drums, right? And I was thinking—”

“I didn’t actually mean it!”

Vern scowls and kicks out at him in frustration. It’s a tiny thing and it barely even hurts, but in it’s own way it still kind of stings. “Why do you always have to be such a dick?” Vern says angrily, “Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to hang out with you all the time.”

David’s shoulders come up to meet his ears. He never really thought of it that way. It never even occurred to him that Vern—that _Tucker_ might not think of David as his friend. “Fine,” David mutters, “Fine. Okay.”

They don’t say a word to each other after that, David too caught up in his hurt and Tucker far too distracted by anger, or annoyance, or something else that David is apparently too blind to recognize.

Tucker breaks the silence after about three minutes pass. “Heey,” he says, shifting warily, “So maybe you should get a new name too. Something cooler, you know? ‘Cause you’re getting way too old for people to call you Davey.”

David looks at him with a face like stone. “I don’t want a new name,” he says, holding his hurt close to his chest, “I like the one I already have.” He likes the way it sounds and the way it fits—and anyway, it was all he had left of his father.

Tucker runs his fingers through his hair and mutters, “ _Figures._ ”

“What’s that supposed to mean!?”

Tucker snorts. “It’s _boring_. It makes you sound like a teacher’s pet.”

And that’s such a _lie_ —no, not a lie, but _bullshit._ It’s bullshit, that’s what it is, because his dad was never a teacher’s pet. His dad saved the lives of everyone in his squad and he was called David his entire life. _He_ never needed a stupid nickname.

“I like my name,” David repeats coldly.

Tucker laughs outright, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay, whatever you say, _Davey_ ,” Tucker says mockingly. He nods over at the television screen. “C’mon, let’s play one of your stupid ancient games before I go.”

And it’s weird that _that_ of all things is what makes him explode, but before Tucker even finishes his sentence, David is flying across the room to tackle him to the floor. The hit the rug with a muffled thud, limbs flailing wildly as they roll around.

David might have had the element of surprise, but Tucker is scrappy, long limbed and fierce. He throws a punch at David’s head and then takes advantage of his momentary daze. In a rush, the world whirls around, and David finds himself on his back.

“What’s your _problem!?_ ” Tucker shouts.

David kicks out and nails him in the thigh. “You’re my problem,” he yells at the top of their lungs, and just like that the two of them are off again. They scream and shout and whale on each other like they haven’t done since they were little kids.

They’d probably still be fighting as Tucker disappeared if David’s mom didn’t run into the room and pull them apart. She yanks them up by the back of their shirts and sits them down on opposite ends of the couch. “Now,” she says patiently, standing above them with her hands on her hips, “Do either of you want to tell me what all this was about?”

“Yeah,” Tucker snarls, “He was being a _dick._ ”

“ _I_ was being a dick!?” he squawks, “You were the one who spent all afternoon making fun of me! It’s like you were _trying_ to get me to hit you.” He fumes, fists clenching at the memory. He already wants to punch Tucker again.

“Hey!” she says sharply, “Both of you watch your language.”

She arches an eyebrow and _looks_ at them until they mutter an apology. He wonders if it’s a weird parent thing, or if anyone can learn to make someone feel guilty with a glance. He already knows who he’d use it on if he had the chance.

“I just got off of a twelve hour shift,” his mom says with annoyance, “So I don’t appreciate having to lecture you two about fighting when you both already know it’s wrong. Vern—”

David snorts derisively. “He goes by _Tucker_ now. It’s a _rock star’s_ name.”

Tucker glares at him and his mother rubs her temples as if she already has a headache. “Yes, thank you for that, David,” she says drily, “I’m sure he appreciates the correction.”

He shrugs unapologetically and gets a sigh in return. She closes her eyes for a second in exasperation, then turns to Tucker and says, “Maybe it’s for the best if you two cool it off for a day. Why don’t you call up your parents and ask them to pick you up.”

They freeze as one and stare at her with wide eyes.

“Uh,” Tucker says, swallowing noisily, “Uh, yeah. Okay? I’ll totally do that.”

David flinches slightly. He can already tell that the lie isn’t gonna fly. Her shoulders are already tensing up, tightening the way it does when she has to deal with grandpa. “You _did_ tell them you were coming over, didn’t you?” she asks cautiously, “You didn’t just take the shuttle home from school with David without telling anybody, right?”

“Of course he told someone,” David says quickly, “He said—”

His mom shoots him a warning look. “When I’m talking to you, you’ll know it,” she says sharply, “Until then, you should think long and hard about whether you want to say anything that might make me angrier.”

He winces, but shuts up.

“I can walk home,” Tucker tries, “I live really close—like, around the corner! So I can just walk home. It’s cool, I told them I was gonna be walking home anyway.”

She nods slowly, lips pursed. It’s clear she doesn’t believe a word he’s saying. “I see,” she says calmly, “You know, you and David have been such close friends for so long. I’m amazed I haven’t met your parents before. Don’t you think it’s time we changed that?”

“I…guess,” Tucker says.

“This is all your fault,” David says miserably.

“Don’t think you’re getting off that easily, mister,” his mom says with a scowl, “As soon as we’re done taking Vern home, you and I are going to be having a _very_ long talk.”

Tucker’s voice cuts through the wave of trepidation that flits through him, coming out loud and panicked and sharp. “We need to go to his room to get my things,” he says agitatedly, “Right, Davey? I can’t _go home_ without my things.”

“What?” David says, and then: “ _Oh!_ Right!”

He jumps to his feet, caught somewhere between apprehension and relief. On the one hand, they don’t have to deal with his mother finding out that Tucker’s parents don’t really exist. On the other hand…well, now he’s going to have to deal with explaining why Tucker disappeared into thin air.

“Yeah,” he says hastily, “We need to go to my room.”

His mom narrows her eyes at them, completely unimpressed with their stalling tactics. “You have exactly two minutes before I come up there after you,” she says ominously, “I highly suggest you don’t leave me waiting.”

“We won’t,” David promises. He pulls Tucker off the couch, steadying him when he sways almost imperceptibly. It’s so slight that no one but the two of them will notice, but it’s a sure sign that they don’t have very long before he leaves.

They stumble up the stairs as fast as they can, shoving their way into his room and slamming the door behind them. It’s not subtle, but it doesn’t need to be. Tucker is already beginning to fade from sight.

Before he goes, he grabs frantically at David’s hands.

“I still think you’re a nerd,” Tucker says.

David carefully lowers him onto the bed, holding tight to the fingers in his hand. “That’s okay,” he says as he squeezes gently, “I don’t think you’re ever gonna be a rockstar.”

Tucker laughs as he passes out and then disappears entirely, leaving David alone in the room with no plan for dealing with his mother. It’s not going to be easy for them after this. They’ll have to work twice as hard to keep it a secret. They might even have to tell her one day.

He’s still thinking about that as the door to his room opens slowly and his mother appears. She takes one look at the empty room and the open window at his back and then shouts so loudly the entire neighborhood can hear. “You are in an _unbelievable_ amount of trouble, young man!”

David flops back onto his bed with a groan.

 

**Age 15**

“Oh my god, you’re so _old_ ,” he hears a voice say under the table. A moment later, Tucker crawls out on his hands and knees, slipping into the chair next to him, “I think I heard my parents listen to this crap.”

“This is before my time too,” David says indignantly, “One of the teachers put this on.”

Tucker winks and playfully nudges him in the side. “Yeah, but you’re still old,” he teases, “When little me is your age, all the songs you like will be called _classics_. It’s fucking funny. If we ever meet in real time, you could totally babysit me.”

David scowls. “Or maybe I’ll give you a spanking instead.”

He says it just loudly enough for a passing teacher to stop and give him a warning look. Humiliated, he begins to sink lower in his chair, cheeks burning as he gives her a weak smile as if that’ll make her forget what he said.

Next to him, Tucker struggles to contain his laughter.

“I hate you,” he hisses under his breath. He carefully maintains his polite smile until she finally disappears and then turns to glower at Tucker halfheartedly. “You know, you really are an awful person.”

“What _ever_ ,” Tucker says with a grin. He nudges David again as he peers around the room, taking in the old-fashioned clothing and teenagers dancing around them in pairs. In his jeans and t-shirt, Tucker sticks out like a sore thumb.

“It’s a costume party,” David explains, “The teachers thought it would be fun to have a theme.”

“Oh,” Tucker says. He takes another look around the room and then turns to stare at David in confusion. “Okay,” he says slowly, “So you wanna tell me why you’re hanging around at the table like a loser when you could be out there with everyone else having fun?”

David looks away and shrugs.

“No, seriously, dude,” Tucker bursts out excitedly, “Dances are prime opportunities to get with people. It’s awesome—all you have to do is pick out the people who didn’t get asked out and show them a little love. They’ll be all _over_ you.”

“I’m aware of the technique,” David says, his mood souring instantly, “My date’s over in the corner practically using it as a blueprint.” He reaches across the table to snag a drink from the pile of cans he put there when he first sat down, knowing full well that he was gonna be there for the long run.

“Oh,” Tucker says, whole body going still.

“Yeah,” David says bitterly. He lets his eyes slide across the room, gazing at the couple making out against a wall. He’d been really excited about tonight, too. He never would’ve come if he had known he’d get ditched in the first fifteen minutes.

“That kind of sucks, dude. Like, big time.”

He shrugs again. With anyone else, he’d be bristling at the sympathetic tone, but it’s different when you’ve known someone as long as they have. Besides, Tucker is sure to move on to mockery soon enough, and the ensuing argument will be a decent distraction from the hurt he’s feeling.

Next to him, Tucker begins to fidget, and then he feels a foot nudge up against his. David smiles and nudges back, then leans into his side for a second. “Okay,” Tucker says, “Okay, you know what? Fuck it, you don’t need her—”

“ _Him_ ,” David corrects quietly.

“What!?”

David ducks his head, warily meeting Tucker’s gaze out of the corner of his eyes. Slowly, he nods, fingers crossed that he hasn’t made his second mistake of the night. “Okay,” Tucker says shrilly, “Okay, him, whatever, no one cares.”

It sounds like at least one of them does.

Tucker shakes his head sharply as if he can hear David’s thought. “The _point_ ,” he says forcefully, “Is that it’s totally bullshit, and he’s not even hot, so you definitely shouldn’t be sitting here letting him fuck up your night.”

“And what is it exactly you suggest I do?” David says coldly, “He _drove_ me here, and none of my other friends have cars. I just have to deal with it until my mom gets off her shift and then I can get her to take me home.”

“Uh-huh,” Tucker says smugly, “And by the time she gets here, that dude’ll be crawling on his knees begging you to take him back.” He grins wickedly when David looks at him with surprise. “I mean, if you listen to _me_ anyway.”

David’s pauses to take that in. “Alright. You have my attention.”

Instead of answering, Tucker stands up and pulls him along to the middle of the dance floor. He hesitates briefly, looking nervous and tense, but he pushes it back long enough to wrap his arms around David’s waist.

“That’s your big plan?” David asks skeptically, “Making him jealous by dancing with someone else?”

Tucker scoffs at him, clearly unimpressed with his observational skills. “Uh, no,” he says, “My big plan is making him jealous by dancing with someone a thousand times hotter than he is. Why do you think I’m up here with you instead of hooking you up with someone else?”

“Oh, of course,” he says drily, “I don’t know why I was so confused.”

He rolls his eyes at Tucker’s ego, but he lets himself be pulled in just a little bit closer, swaying with Tucker to the beat of the music. They dance for awhile, chest to chest, closer than they’ve been since they were kids. “This is…”

Tucker laughs shakily. “It’s weird, right?”

No, not really—or at least it isn’t weird for him. Nice, he wants to say, or maybe comfortable; both of those are true even if they aren’t exactly what he’s actually thinking. But it’s clear that saying that would only make things worse, so he says the only other thing on his mind:

“Hey, have you always been this short?

Tucker doesn’t miss a beat, only tilts his head up to scowl up at him. “It’s not my fault you sprung up like a weed when I was gone,” he grumbles, “Just wait—I’m gonna get my second growth spurt any day and you’ll go back to being the short one.”

David grins and purposely rests his chin on Tucker’s head, rubbing against the fuzzy curls. He can do that now, he thinks with glee, because Tucker is now a full head shorter than he is—and after so many years of teasing David about his height.

“Ugh,” Tucker mutters into his sternum, “I hate you _so much_.”

David laughs joyfully, voice carrying over the music, and across the room he sees Isaac startle and turn to stare. With a frown, Isaac moves away from the girl he’s talking to and takes two steps toward the dance floor before he stops.

He shakes his head ruefully, hardly able to believe what he’s seeing. “I can’t believe what I’m about to say,” David mutters into Tucker’s ear, “But I think your stupid plan is working.”

“You’re not gonna take him back, are you?”

David tilts his head curiously. “What?”

“I’m just saying, he’s kind of a dick,” Tucker points out, eyes never leaving David’s chest. He ducks his head, avoiding David’s gaze even when he bends down to catch his eye, “And yeah, you’re like the world’s biggest fucking dork, but you can still totally do better.”

He flushes at the compliment, knowing without looking that he’s probably bright red from head to toe. If Tucker wasn’t in such a weird mood, he’d probably be making fun of him right now. “I…um, I won’t,” he says, fumbling his words, “You’re right. He’s a dick. I can definitely do better.”

Tucker surprises him by relaxing against him, body weight resting firmly against his. It’s strange, but nice, and weirdly distracting in a way that makes his fingers itch. He rubs them idly against the side of Tucker’s shirt. And then—

“I have to go,” Tucker blurts out suddenly.

David pulls back in surprise. His eyes narrow suspiciously, all his instincts telling him that something is off. “Wait, you’re getting tired already?” he asks doubtfully, “Really? You haven’t even been here all that long.”

“What? Oh, yeah,” Tucker says nervously. He pushes away from David just as the song changes to something faster. David can barely hear him over the beat. “Yeah, yeah, I’m definitely tired. So sleepy, dude, you have no idea.”

David leans in so he doesn’t have to shout and comes up straight when Tucker backs away from him yet again. “Okaay,” he says slowly, knowing full well that Tucker can’t hear him when his voice is that low, “So you’re just gonna be weird for no reason.”

“What?” Tucker says loudly, “I can’t hear you.”

He rolls his eyes. Quick as a whip, without giving Tucker warning, he reaches out and grabs Tucker by the shirt, yanking him closer. “Let’s find an empty classroom for us to sit down in,” he says into Tucker’s ear, “Somewhere with a little more privacy.”

Tucker goes tense again him and then swallows hard, throat working in a way that catches his attention. “No,” Tucker says, squirming slightly, “No, that’s cool. I can figure something out. You should stay here and make that douchebag jealous some more.”

David says archly, “How can I make him jealous without you here?”

He grins at Tucker to share the joke, but only gets a weak smile in return, and then Tucker is pulling away from him for the third time that evening, backing away and disappearing into the crowd without so much as a goodbye.

Huh. That was odd.

**Age 18**

“Wait, you joined the UNSC?”

David blinks in stunned disbelief. Through all their conversations about what they’d do after they graduated from school, the military never once came up on Tucker’s list. In fact, he almost seemed opposed to it when they talked, openly glaring at David whenever he suggested it for himself.

Tucker busies himself with zipping up his hoodie and cracks a joke about chicks loving a guy in uniform. Something’s off about the way he says it, though, something that feeds the frown edging at the corner of his mouth.

“So anyway,” Tucker says abruptly, “Why aren’t you at boot camp?”

It’s said almost accusingly, and that’s almost enough of a distraction to keep David from feeling the way his chest twists painfully at the reminder. “I’m on leave,” he says evenly, “I’ll be back to basic as soon as it’s over.”

Tucker scoffs. “Since when do they let recruits go on leave?”

He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter at all, but Tucker is looking at him expectantly and he’s not going to let this go without getting answers. “They make exceptions sometimes,” David says stiffly, “For certain situations that can’t be helped.”

His eyes lower to ground, stomach rolling sickly as he waits.

He waits, seconds crawling by as synapses fire in Tucker’s mind. He waits, listening to the sound of his best friend breathing, thinking about all the people who can’t. He waits—and then he hears a gasp, and he knows without looking that Tucker finally understands.

“Your mom,” Tucker says softly.

David nods, but the mix of grief and horror in Tucker’s voice is so much more than he can stand right now. “You said your shoulder was hurting you earlier,” he says instead, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat, “I could help you get the kinks out if you want.”

“What? Hey, no, Davey—”

His fists clench into balls at his side. “Why don’t you sit on the floor so I can get a better angle,” he powers through stubbornly, “I’ll go get the tiger balm from the bathroom. You should take your shirt off while I’m gone. You don’t want it staining your clothes.”

Tucker rubs his neck tiredly. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters, “Fine.” He doesn’t sound very pleased about it, though, and his eyes don’t break contact with David’s for a very long time. They hold his gaze until David turns away to leave.

“I’ll be right back," David mumbles.

He stays in the bathroom for a full five minutes just to catch his breath. It’s a bad idea—like everything else in the house, it’s filled with things that remind him of her. The coconut shampoo that she left on the counter, the purple toothbrush he hasn’t thrown out; all of it leaves his gasping for breath, and his eyes are red when he finally comes out.

Tucker doesn’t comment on it and for that he’s never felt more grateful.

David slides between him and the back of the couch. He knows he was supposed to sit behind him on the sofa, but suddenly that feels too far away to handle. Instead, he lets his legs slide down on either side of Tucker’s and lets the closeness calm his nerves.

If Tucker thinks it’s weird, then he keeps it to himself.

Oddly, the pungent smell of the tiger balm almost brings a smile to his mouth. Or maybe it’s just the memory of Tucker at age fourteen, nose scrunching up when he smelled it for the first time. “Do you remember your first growth spurt?” he asks quietly.

“You mean my _last_ one,” Tucker grumbles.

He feels his lips quirk up at the edges. “You kept on moaning about how much it hurt,” David says, “You wouldn’t stop until you convinced me to massage your back. You never did pay me back for that one.”

He dips his finger into the balm and rubs the cream into his palms. Then, without any sigh of discomfort or hesitation, he places his hands on Tucker’s back and paints a long line down his spine. Tucker shivers and leans into his touch.

“I never—” Tucker clears his throat and tries again, “I never returned the favor because you suck at giving massages,” he says roughly, “It felt like you were beating me up. If your mom hadn’t come home, I probably would’ve—“

He stops abruptly, but it’s too late for him to take the words back.

David’s hands still and then drop limply to his lap. He feels cold, all of a sudden, like there’s a chill running through the room that only he can feel. He shivers with it, shakes to the bone, and all he can think as he struggles not to cry is just how fucking _unfair_ this is.

He curls up into his pain, sobbing with his head on Tucker’s neck. And through it all—through all the screams and raging and muttered curses, Tucker doesn’t say a word. He just lets it happen. Let’s David exhaust himself against his back.

And yet, somehow that’s all he needs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Age 22**

“Oh fuck, oh _shit!”_

Hands scramble frantically at his chest and pain shoots through him and pierces through the haze. He gasps, whines in pain, clawing at the hands to shove them away. _“_ David, Davey, c’mon, don’t you fucking do this to me!”

There’s something familiar about that voice.

He tries to open his eyes to see who it is, but it feels like they’ve been glued shut by someone. That would explain the sticky-copper sweetness that’s filling the air.

No…wait.

Glue isn’t supposed to taste like pennies.

There’s something wrong about that. About this. He can’t remember what it is, but he knows there’s something important he’s forgetting. Something he needs to…oh, right. Now he remembers. He needs to tell the medic he was shot.

“Yeah, thanks for the help, David,” Tucker snaps furiously, “I never would’ve figured that without your input. You’re really doing your part for the team by telling me something _I already fucking know_!”

But that isn’t right either. Tucker isn’t supposed to be mad at him. Tucker isn’t supposed to be here at all. He’s supposed to be back at his base with the rest of his team, not…

_he sees Johnson go down. blood spatters across his helmet , stealing precious seconds from him—long enough for the enemy to reach him. even half-blind, he manages to takes out five of them before he is forced to retreat._

…not holed up in an abandoned building behind enemy lines.

Was he reassigned?

“I wasn’t—just shut up, okay?” Tucker says in a panic. Gloved hands brush across his face, thumb tracing a quick line against his cheek, “I need to concentrate. You can’t… _fuck_ , Davey, I don’t know what to do. I didn’t have to do anything when Church died.”

His hands press down against David’s chest once again. The pain is sudden and sharp, anchoring him back down to earth just enough for him to understand what’s going on. “It’s good, Tucker,” he rasps out, “You’re doing good. Just keep pressing down on the wound.”

It’s hard, but he finally opens his eyes.

Tucker nods at him convulsively, helmet bobbing up and down in an erratic way that conveys just how scared he is. “Okay, fuck, yeah, I can do that,” he babbles on, “But we need to get you to a fucking hospital or to a medic or something, because that won’t do _shit_ if we can’t close up the wound.”

“Don’t worry, I managed to—”

The sound of nearby gunfire interrupts what he was going to say. Tucker jumps, looking worried, and then a dark, determined look comes over his face. A blood red hand comes off of David’s chest and comes up to clench around his firearm. The other stays exactly where it is.

“It’s my team,” David says reassuringly, even if there’s no way to know for sure. It’s not Covenant weapons either way, even though it definitely means they’re close. “I managed to signal my location to them before I passed out.”

Tucker swears, voice tight. “How soon before they show up?”

“No way to know.”

“ _Fuck!”_

Resignation settles low in his heart—somehow he knows exactly what’s going on. “You’re getting tired, aren’t you?” he says in disappointment, “You’re going to leave.” And when he leaves, David will be all alone, dying slowly on a dirty floor as the blood seeps out of his body.

“No,” Tucker says forcefully, “No I’m _fucking_ not.”

But he’s already lagging, leaning heavy over David’s chest. It’s inescapable, it always has been, and nothing they’ve ever done in their lives has been enough to make him stay.

“It’s okay—”

Tucker shakes his head fiercely, struggling to stay. “Shut up, David, I’m fucking staying,” he says wildly, repeating the words like that will change anything. But they don’t—even as he says it, his whole body slumps and he has to twist in the air to avoid landing on David’s chest.

He hits the floor at David’s side with a thump, metal armor clanging as he falls. He’s already beginning to fade from sight, but his hand never leaves David’s chest, and it’s a hundred times more comforting than any medic or squad mate could be.

Before he leaves, he curls up in David’s arm and whispers three words into his ear. Moments later, his team comes storming into the room he’s lying in and then there’s a flurry of sound and motion as everyone does their best to make sure he lives another day.

He doesn’t remember everything that happens after that, but the words Tucker said that day echo in his head and leave a grin on his face long after it’s over. It’s ridiculous and stupid, and only _he_ would say it at a time like that…

_“You never listen.”_

…but still, it gives him something to smile about.

 

**Age 25**

“Ugh, what the fuck?”

Washington pauses with his hands hovering under the faucet. Hastily, he finishes washing the soap from his hands and impatiently dries him on his jeans instead of heading over to the drier. He turns just in time to see the bathroom stall to his left fly open.

Tucker appears, spitting out curses.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Washington says with a grin, “I know for a fact this isn’t the first time you suddenly woke up in the bathroom of a bar.”

Tucker scowls at him. “I never should have told you that story.”

“Too late now.”

He gets another dark look for his trouble, and then Tucker is stomping over to stare at himself in the mirror above the sink. “Ugh,” Tucker says again, frowning at the sight, “I woke up with my face and hands on the toilet. I’m probably gonna get like, super herpes or something.”

Washington subtly inches away.

Getting a sexually transmitted disease from a toilet seat may be a myth, but that doesn’t mean Tucker isn’t covered with filth. He’s not exactly eager to brush up against him before he’s had time to clean up.

“No, no, fuuuck that,” Tucker says, snatching at his shirt before he can get too far, “I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you. If anyone around here deserves to be getting monster face herpes, it definitely isn’t me.”

“Wait, how is it _my_ fault!?” Washington squawks indignantly. Tucker’s arms reach out for him again, forcing him to try to duck under his arms without actually touching him. He fails, and _flails_ and almost trips as he wriggles around in an attempt to escape from Tucker’s clingy octopus arms.“Tucker, would you stop for a—”

But before he can finish his sentence, Tucker leaps at him, hands outstretched.

“That isn’t—Tucker, no!” Washington yelps, springing away when Tucker makes a grab for his face with his dirty hands. They scramble for a moment, sides hitting hard against the side of the sink as their limbs flail in the air and catch at clothes. “Oh my _god,_ you are so immature!”

“Shut up and let me give you herpes!”

It’s bizarre and outrageous and so incredibly Tucker at his most ridiculous that the only possible response is to burst out laughing where he stands. He laughs and laughs until he’s curled up with it, chest aching as he gasps for air.

“Uh,” Tucker says, “Okay, it wasn’t _that_ funny.”

Washington wheezes and lets Tucker pull him up until he’s standing straight. “No, that’s—that’s not why I’m laughing,” he struggles to say through his mirth, “I’m just—” He shakes his head fondly, laughter trickling off into a chuckle, “I’m really glad to see you again.”

Tucker snorts. “Seriously? We saw each other like three months ago.” But he’s smiling even as he says it, a small flush rising up to cover his cheeks, and he ducks his head in that way he does when an unexpected compliment leaves him reeling.

“I haven’t made many friends here yet,” Wash admits, “So it’s entirely possible the lack of conversation is making you seem far more appealing that you actually are.”

Tucker smirks and shoves Washington to the side as he moves back over to the sink, wetting a bunch of paper towels in order to scrub at his face. “So, what,” Tucker says teasingly, “Are you trying to tell me that nobody fell for your dorky charm and obsession with cats? I’m so fucking surprised, you have no idea.”

Washington protests, “I don’t have an obsession with cats!”

“People who aren’t obsessed with cats don’t try to build a freaky cat army in their basement when they’re twelve years old, dude,” Tucker points out, “You’re lucky you only got grounded for a couple of weeks when your neighbors called the cops on your ass.”

“I don’t—you’re taking everything out of context!” He was just trying to rescue a few strays, that’s all. They weren’t even living there, just wandering in whenever the weather got too cold. Everyone made a big deal out of nothing.

“What _ever_ ,” Tucker replies, “Anyway, I thought you said you made friends with that Connie chick. What’s the matter, did you piss her off already?”

Washington shakes his head. “No, that’s not it,” he says, “We’re still friends. It’s just…well, Command’s been experimenting with team line-ups lately, so we don’t get to see each other as often as we’d like. Or anyone, really.” It’s more than a little frustrating for everyone there. Just when any of them start to gel with a team, the higher ups come in and start moving people around. It’s like they’re searching for something, but he doesn’t know what.

“Yeah,” Tucker sighs, “I know what that’s like.”

Washington tilts his head at gloomy tone to Tucker’s voice.

“Me and Junior got reassigned to the diplomatic corps,” Tucker explains glumly, “So we have to go around from location to location trying to smooth things over whenever the aliens are getting upset. I don’t even bother to remember people’s names anymore.”

He’s not all that surprised to hear it, to be honest, not after hearing Tucker’s story about what happened with Wyoming back in Blood Gulch. Even if Junior didn’t exist, there’s no way Tucker wouldn’t have been reassigned after killing a rogue freelancer.

(He wishes he could tell Command that Wyoming was going to turn on them all, but he can’t. The only thing he can do is keep a close eye on him and try his best get to revenge whenever they spar together. He only manages it half of the time, but Tucker says it’s more than enough.)

“But hey,” Tucker says suddenly, “At least I’m not alone, right?” He turns away from the sink and leans against the counter, body arched and showing off lean muscle. And then he _smiles_ at Washington, soft and private and sweet. “I still have Junior, so I’m not totally screwed.”

“Yeah,” David says, “And you still have me.”

 

**Age 26**

Almost a full year after that time in the bar, Washington comes back from training just in time to see Tucker pulling the armor from his body. He’s battered and bruised, covered in blood and sand, limbs quivering so violently he can barely stand up straight. “Wash,” he says harshly, “I need you to teach me how to survive.”

The whole story comes out in rambling bursts. How Tucker was in the desert with Junior when the dig team attacked. How they struggled for days when communication was cut off. How he barely managed to get a message out asking his old team for help. Washington listens patiently as he cleans the blood from Tucker’s hair.

His stomach twists when he hears its CT.

Tucker is too tired to make the connection to Connie, but her betrayal is fresh in Washington’s mind. It’s his fault that Tucker is in this mess. If he had only told the Director his suspicions ahead of time, this wouldn’t have happened. Connie—no, CT would be locked up in a military prison right now, not fighting in the desert with Washington’s oldest friend.

He does his best to shake off the guilt. There isn’t enough time for all the apologies he wants to make and he’s not so self-centered to make this whole thing about him. In any case, he’d much rather spend what little time they have together teaching Tucker how to stay alive just a little while longer.

Washington grills him on the situation, snapping question after question on the enemy troops. How many men do they have? What kind of supplies? Do you know if they have access to freelancer technology? On and on until Tucker’s temper begins fraying at the edges, and then he keeps on going because he really needs to know.

And when he’s done and he’s gotten as much information as he can, he helps Tucker build the best possible strategy for his and Junior’s continued survival.

Only time will tell if it works out for them.

The room is dark when Tucker comes to him next.

“Hey,” Tucker whispers into the side of his neck, “Do you remember that time when we were kids and the two of us decided to practice kissing on each other?”

“Of course.”

Thirteen years old and both of them far too scared to make the first move. They wound up laughing it off entirely in the end, and spent the rest of the afternoon playing video games in Washington’s den.

“We’re kind of stupid, aren’t we?”

“A little,” Washington admits.

Tucker goes quiet for a long time, so long that he starts to worry. The bed creaks as Washington turns to face him (pointless as that is in the dim light of his bedroom) and as soon as he’s settled, Tucker reaches out to pull him near again.

“I don’t think I’m gonna make it. I ran out of food two days ago. I’m gonna run out of water in a couple of days.” Tucker runs his fingers down Washington’s spine as if his touch could make his words any better, when nothing could possibly be farther from the truth. “I don’t think anyone’s gonna get there in time.”

“ _Tucker_ ,” David chokes out.

“It’s okay. I got Junior out. That’s all that matters.”

“Tucker, _please—_ ”

“Promise me you’ll take care of him, okay? Six years from now, you go and track him down for me, alright? I don’t care what you have going on,” Tucker says, “Fucking go AWOL if you need to. Just help him.”

“I will,” David whispers back, “I promise.”

Tucker nods against his throat, and he pretends that the water that falls against his neck is anything but what it actually is. “You take care of him,” Tucker demands fiercely, “I used to tell him all these stories about you before he went to bed. He’ll go with you if you tell him your name.”

“I’ll remember,” he swears, “I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

He prays with all the hope and faith left in his heart that he’ll be alive to keep his promise, and then he prays even harder that it won’t be necessary. He prays until Tucker drifts to sleep and fades from his arms.

Only then does David let himself weep.

 

**Age 27**

It’s a long time before he sees Tucker again.

There were so many days he spent walking around in a daze, so many sleepless nights spent waiting for Tucker to show up. He’s been ripping himself into little pieces: grieving, and hating himself for grieving, loving and feeling himself ache from loving. The only consolation he has throughout these long months is that everyone else is too distracted to notice.

When he comes through the door and sees that familiar body lying on his bed, relief comes crashing through him like thunder, his heart and chest working together to force the air from his lungs.

Tucker is alive and here and well.

He kneels on the bed next to him, hand already outstretched from his desire to touch. It feels like something inside him is bursting to get out, and it only calms and quiets when he strokes his hand down Tucker’s throat.

“Tucker,” he whispers softly, “Hey, Tucker, it’s time to wake up.”

He watches as those long lashes slowly flutter open to reveal the dark brown eyes below.

For a second, he wants nothing more than to feel those lashes brush against his lips. For a second (that brief, beautiful span between sleep and awake) it looks like Tucker will let him. Tucker smiles softly and tilts his head up like he’s asking for a kiss.

But then the moment passes as the fog lifts from his head, and Tucker takes one look at him before he turns away and groans into the pillow. “Ugh, fuck off,” he mutters irritably, “Whatever it is, _I_ _don’t care.”_

It almost feels like he’s been punched.

Washington blinks hard, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Tucker repeats with growl, “Get Caboose to help you with whatever stupid thing you need to do today, because all I plan on doing is sleeping in and jerking off.”

He pauses as he tries to piece together the puzzle. “I think,” Washington says slowly, “That you’re still confused from whatever dream you were having, because I never got the ‘honor’ of meeting your friend.”

“Wait, what?” Tucker says blankly. He flips around until he’s lying on his back and stares up at the ceiling in utter confusion, visibly getting his head on straight as he looks around the room. “Oh. Ohhhh. Sorry, dude, I thought you were the other you. My bad.” He shrugs carelessly, heedless of the effect his words have on Wash.

“Wait, we know each other when we’re older?” Wash blurts out in shock, “Do we get assigned to the same squad? Are you a member of Project Freelancer, or do we meet each other some other way? When does it happen? You didn’t say anything last time we talked, so it has to be—”

“Whoa!” Tucker says quickly, “Dude, slow down.”

He quiets immediately, shoving his hands in his pajama pants to prevent himself from looking too eager. He tries his best not to fidget at all, but despite his training it’s more difficult than it should be.

Tucker stares at him in fascination. “Man, it’s so weird to see you like this,” he says in astonishment. He shakes his head as he marvels at the difference, eyes never leaving Washington’s face, “Like you haven’t had all the fun ripped out of you yet. It’s kind of creepy.”

Washington gnaws worriedly at his lower lip. That’s not exactly what he hoped to hear come out of Tucker’s mouth when talking about their future relationship. In fact, it's pretty much the exact opposite.  “So we don’t get along in the future?” he asks warily, trying to push back on his apprehension.

Tucker makes a face at some memory he doesn’t feel like sharing. “Yeah, you’re kind of a dick,” he explains with a scowl, “You’re always bitching about all this bullshit training, acting like the world’s gonna end if I forget to do crunches for one fucking day.”

“But we’re still friends, right?” Washington asks, “We still talk?”

Tucker scoffs as if even the idea in impossible to imagine. “Hard to talk to someone who just wants to yell at you all the time,” he says resentfully, “Or who keeps wandering off and leaving you alone when you’re trying to hang out with them.”

“Oh,” he says.

Something of what he's feeling must be obvious in his voice, because Tucker finally seems to realize what he’s saying and scrambles to make things right again. “Wait, fuck, no, I mean we’re _cool_ ,” he says quickly, “You just get on my nerves sometimes because you make me run drills when I don’t want to.”

“Running drills is important,” Washington says stiffly, “It helps with group cohesiveness as well as allowing your captain to correct any problems you have before they become an issue. The more you train, the better your chances for surviving in combat.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Yeah, thanks. I already heard this lecture three times in the last two days.”

Yet again, Washington has to push down on his hurt. He tries his best to keep it to himself, but Tucker knows him well enough by now to see through his lies. “Look,” Tucker says in frustration, “We’re friends, okay?”

“You don’t have to lie to me—”

Tucker breathes out through his nose, fingers clenched tightly in the bed sheets like he wants to reach out. “I’m not,” he says insistently, “I’m not _lying_ to you. It’s just complicated, alright? But we still hang out.”

Washington scoffs.

“Hey,” Tucker says sharply, “When have I ever lied to you before? I mean, yeah, things are kind of tense right now, but that doesn’t mean anything, because we still eat together three times a day and you still let me pretend to help you with the radio tower just so we can have some time alone.”

“I…”

“We’re _good_ , okay? We fight all the time, but we’re still good.”

Despite the reassurance, he’s still not entirely sure that he believes what Tucker’s saying, but he decides to let it go for now in favor of trying to _fix_ things. They spend the rest of the night talking to each other on that bed. They talk until their voices grow hoarse, and Washington gets to hear all about the strange bunch of soldiers he’ll make friends with in the future. They talk until Tucker runs out of stuff to tell him about the future and Washington is forced to pick up the slack.He’s in the middle of telling him all about this guy in basic when Tucker interrupts him with a yawn. “Sorry, dude, but I’m pretty sure I’m gonna leave before I get to hear the end of your story.”

“No, it’s fine,” Washington says honestly, “I’m glad we got to talk as long we did.” If they could talk like this now then there’s still hope for them in the future. “Besides, I think I’m finally relaxed enough to get some sleep tonight after all.”

Tucker smirks lazily as he drifts off to sleep. “Why, you got a hot date tomorrow that’s making you nervous?” he says teasingly, “You should’ve let me know. I would’ve given you tips.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Wash says hurriedly, “I’ve just got a big day, that’s all.” He hesitates for a moment, debating whether or not he should say anything more, and then continues carefully, “I’m going to meet my new partner tomorrow.”

“Cool,” Tucker says, “I hope you get along.”

Washington doesn’t say so, but he’s been hoping the very same thing.

 

**Age 28**

“Why didn’t you tell me what was going to happen?” Washington snarls, words ripping themselves from his throat like they’re actually trying to cause him pain, “You let us talk about drills when you could’ve been warning me all along.”

Tucker reels back in surprise, shock contorting his face and turning it ugly until horrified realization takes its place, “Oh _fuck_ ,” he says uneasily, “The Epsilon thing.”

“Yes, Tucker,” he says mockingly, “The Epsilon thing.”

“Wash, I—”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” he spits out, furious with himself for ever believing a word that came out of that treacherous mouth, “You _knew_. You knew all along what was going to happen to me.” He laughs bitterly, wondering why he’s even surprised. After all, what’s one more betrayal on top of everything else?

His knees crumble and he falls to the ground gasping for air. The world is spinning wildly, or maybe he’s just dizzy, or maybe Epsilon has come back to tear him to pieces one more time. Hands clutch at him, but he pushes them away half-blindly, unwilling to believe the lies anymore.

“Don’t act like you care,” Washington chokes out, “Don’t you _fucking_ act like you care.”

He’s so fucking _sick_ of trying to convince himself that anyone ever give a _shit_ about him. No one did—no one _ever_ did, not North or York or Connie or South. None of them could have _ever_ cared or they wouldn’t have left him to rot in a military prison masquerading as a psych ward.

Even Epsilon left him alone in the end.

And Tucker...Tucker is the worst of them all, because he actually almost convinced himself that he and Tucker could...that they would one day...but that's never going to happen. That's never, _ever_ going to happen and he yanks at his hair to make sure he remembers. He's so stupid. He's so _fucking_ stupid. No wonder nobody ever told him a thing.

Fingers clench around his own, tugging them off his head before he can draw blood. He looks up in blind fury, swiping at the hands until they let go. How _dare_ Tucker touch him like he actually cares? How _dare_ Tucker act like he they're even friends? He doesn't realize he's saying it out loud until Tucker replies. “Wash, no, come on, you know I’m not acting,” Tucker pleads desperately, shaking his head over and over like that’s going to make his words more believable. “Fuck, I know I should’ve said something before, I just…”

“You just what?” Washington repeats bitterly, “No, really, please give me your brilliant explanation for why you _ruined my life_. Tell me something that will make this alright again. I'm dying to hear it.”

Tucker swallows hard and says nothing.

“That’s what I thought.”

 

A few weeks later, Tucker shows up at his bedside and climbs in next to him. There are tear tracks on his face that he doesn’t bother to hide, and he clings to Washington all night long like he’s afraid that something’s going to tear them apart.

He knows without asking that something very bad has happened to him.

But then again, what’s one more thing?

 

**Age 29**

“You know, I’m getting really fucking tired of seeing you get shot.”

Washington coughs and tries not to notice the wet copper taste that’s in his mouth. The healing unit will take care of that soon enough, provided he doesn’t die before it’s able to do its job. “That must be so hard for you,” he says sarcastically, “I’ll try to do much better next time.”

“Yeah, well, you better,” Tucker says irritably, “Because it’s kinda getting old.”

He stares up at dark grey sky and thinks to himself that he’s starting to agree. A lot of things have been getting old lately—things like trust and empathy and hope—just about everything except for his friends.

Just as he thinks that, Tucker's face suddenly appears above him, blocking out the sky and reminding him that he still has one person left. “Wash, hey, whoa,” he says anxiously, “You kinda tuned out on me. I thought I lost you for a second. How are you doing? Fuck, this healing thing better be working.”

Washington wants to laugh in his face, but he knows that if he begins then he’ll never stop. How’s he doing? What a _joke_. He’s bleeding out from wounds given to him by the last two remaining members of his squad while the stolen healing unit he looted from the corpse of one of his friends is the only thing keeping him alive. Obviously, he’s doing just _great_.

“Wash? Davey, c’mon—”

“She shot me in the back,” Washington says numbly, “We were the only ones left.”

The smile he gets in reply is sadder than it has any right to be, but the words he says next will live on in Washington’s memory until the day that he dies. Even when everything else shifts into nothingness and fades away from his mind, he’ll never forget this moment or the way that he feels.

Because Carolina is still alive.

**Age 30**

“What were you dreaming about?”

He regrets asking as soon as the words are out of his mouth, because the question nearly causes Tucker to collapse in on himself, shoulders slumping down as if his head is too heavy for his body to hold. “Nothing,” Tucker says dismissively, “Just old stuff. I should be over it by now. So hey, what’s up with you, anyway? I mean, aside from the obvious—”

Washington shrugs like it doesn't matter. “It didn’t look like nothing to me.”

Tucker pauses in the middle of the room and glares at him like he’s purposely making things difficult. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t; after all, it’s not like there’s been all that much for him to do around here lately. This is the most excitement he’s had in months. Besides, he knows what it’s like to scream himself awake at night. Sometimes it helps to have someone to talk to. He hasn’t really had anyone like that in awhile, but he’s pretty sure he still remembers how it goes.

The least he could do is try to help Tucker for once.

Tucker fidgets with the edge of the sheet. He wants to talk about it, that much is obvious, he just seems to think—for whatever reason—that he _shouldn’t_ be talking about it at all. Still, the desire to receive comfort apparently overrides any doubts he has in his mind. “Okay, so, like a year ago,” he says hesitantly, “That thing where you were dying on the ground? Do you remember?”

“I seem to have a vague recollection,” he says drily.

He gets another scowl in exchange for his sass, but Tucker only pauses for a moment before he continues with his story. “I told you I was tired of seeing you get shot,” he says haltingly, eyes looking far off into the distance, “We—there was this whole huge stupid battle, and I thought you were dead at first, but then you weren’t, and—”

Tucker swallows hard, looking down at floor like he’s going to be sick. “I got back in time to see it happen. And you’re okay—fuck, you were okay a year ago, ‘cause we got you back, but sometimes I still—” He cuts himself off and runs his fingers through his hair. “You are _such_ a fucking douchebag,” Tucker says tiredly.

His hands are trembling, Washington notices, shaking just from the memory of what happened. “I’m sorry,” Washington says sympathetically. It doesn’t seem enough, somehow, not when Tucker is looking at him with eyes that are filled with grief, but he means it nonetheless. “It…” He pauses, struggling to find the right words, “It _sucks_ that you had to go through that.”

Tucker snorts bitterly. “Whatever. You were the one who actually got shot, so I bet it sucked a whole lot more on the other side.”

He doesn’t even have to think about it before he’s shaking his head. “I don’t think it did,” Wash replies automatically, meaning it with everything he has, “I can’t even imagine how I’d feel if I had to see something like that happen to you.” Tucker’s eyes dart over to his, sharp as knives, and there’s a sudden flash of hope in them that strips him of the rest of his thoughts and makes him stammer. “I’ve just…I’ve lost enough people for one lifetime,” he finishes clumsily, feeling himself go red from head to toe.

“Yeah,” Tucker says impassively, “You and me both.”

Wash lowers his head, incapable of meeting his gaze any longer. The silence that follows seems to go on forever, stretching on and on into the night. Thirty years old, he thinks with frustration, That’s four whole years in real time. So why haven’t they worked things out by now?

They haven't worked things out then and they won't be able to work things out now, because all of a sudden Tucker swears, the unexpected distress in his voice knocking Washington from his thoughts and putting him on edge. “What?” he asks, mildly alarmed, eyes darting around the room in search of whatever went caused the irritation, “What’s wrong?

Tucker shrugs guiltily. “Nothing. I’m just, uh, I’m kinda starting to feel tired, you know?”

“But you only just got here!” Washington protests. It can’t be time for him to go already. It’s already been so long since he’s talked to anyone who wished him well and far, _far_ longer since he got to see Tucker. It doesn’t seem fair that they get so little time together, not when loneliness is finally starting to take hold and stick to his bones.

“I know,” Tucker says regretfully, “It fucking sucks.”

“No you _don’t_ know,” Washington bursts out, startling them both, “You can’t _possibly_ know what it’s like to wait as long as I have. We got to meet when you were twenty-six years old, but it’s already been two decades for me and I’m still not done waiting!”

Tucker’s face shifts and goes hard and cold the further into his speech he goes. “Yeah, well, I’ll trade you waiting around if you trade me all those times I had to watch you almost die,” he snaps, “Still wanna complain or are you done talking shit?”

Washington's stomach swirls and he doesn't respond, too caught up in his own guilt to even think about apologizing for what he said. Two whole minutes, he thinks bitterly, that’s how long it took for him to forget the look in Tucker’s eyes. That’s how self-involved he is. He wishes he could say that it was something new, but Tucker was right about him all along: he really doesn't have any idea how to listen.

Tucker glares at him for a long moment, probably thinking about that himself, but he’s still the first to bend in the end. He looks away from Wash and throws himself on the bed with a sigh. “Look,” he says unhappily, “I know you’re probably pretty fucking miserable here, okay? But it’s not my fault. You need to chill out.”

He struggles to find the right words to make up for things, because Tucker is right and it doesn’t make sense to screw things up with the only person he has left in the world. “I’m sorry,” Wash forces out with some difficulty, “I shouldn’t have said that. I know I’m not the only one who—”

“Whatever, dude, I’m already over it.”

And just like that, things are okay between the two of them again, just in time for Tucker to start to fade away. His eyelids get heavier as Washington watches, slowly slipping shut as his body grows fainter with every second that passes. “Wash, hey,” he says groggily, visibly struggling to stick around, “Hold on, I wanna say something. When you were gone, I realized something…”

But he’s gone before the last syllable leaves his mouth, leaving Washington alone inside his prison cell, somehow feeling worse than he did before Tucker showed up. “Less than two years left,” he reminds himself desperately, “Just make it through this trial and everything will be okay.”

As soon as the UNSC’s done gathering evidence against the Director, he’ll be granted his freedom, finally accomplishing what he said he’d do years ago when he first promised to get justice for his friends. He’ll be reassigned to Tucker’s squad in no time. All he has to do is wait a little longer.

Everything will be fine.

**Epilogue**

They meet for the first time on a snowy field surrounded by people that he would one day come to call family. There isn’t enough time for all the things they want to say to each other, and they have other things and people to worry about.

Washington almost dies again. Tucker is once more forced to watch him bleed out in the middle of nowhere, far from anyone who could save his life. He takes it about as well as he could. Wash doesn’t tell him that it won’t be the last time he sees it happen.

But unlike before, Washington gets to follow him home.

 

Years later, Tucker comes to him one last time.

 

**Age 37**

The Tucker that comes to him when he’s thirty seven looks nothing like the Tucker he left behind at red base. It’s not just that he’s older and edging on middle-aged, Washington thinks, or the way laugh and stress lines have begun to make their stamp across his face. No, none of that is what catches his attention when he first lays his eyes on the man in front of him.

It’s not physical at all.

He walks like he knows exactly how his body works. He smiles like he knows the best kinds of secrets. He looks at Washington as though he brought him a gift and already knows just how much he will love it.

Washington looks at him and wonders how much longer he has to wait.

Tucker grins at him like he already knows what he’s thinking and reaches up to cradles Washington’s head in his hands. The touch of cool metal brushes against the skin of his right cheek as Tucker comes up on his tiptoes to press a soft kiss against his mouth.

“Just a little while longer,” he whispers before they part.

But after finally gotten a taste of what he’s always wanted, Washington doesn’t want to let it go. He leans down to kiss Tucker one last time before he pushes him away. “I’m sorry,” he breathes against those amazing lips that distracted him on more than one occasion, “But there’s something I have to do right now.”

“I know,” Tucker says smugly.

Washington throws his head back and laughs long and hard, joy coursing through him and mixing with relief. “You know something, Tucker?” he says with all the fondness he has in his heart, “No matter what happened between us through the years, I never stopped thinking you were worth the wait.”

But he’s not going to wait any longer.

 

 

**Bonus:**

Nearly two years after they finally get together, Junior tells them he met a little girl. Her name’s Allison, he says, and she tried to punch him in the face.

All either of them can do is laugh.


End file.
